


Stars That Shine

by Emily Waters (missparker)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-08
Updated: 2008-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11192268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/Emily%20Waters
Summary: Two sides to every coin, after all.





	Stars That Shine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2008???? And forgot about it???? And then went to the Paula Abdul concert earlier this month and fell down the Paula Abdul hole again very hard?????? Then I rescued this from the wayback machine because I like to document all my real bad choices. Shrug emoji.

_What can I compare you to, a window the sun shines through?_   
_Maybe the silver moon, a smile rising_   
_The magic of the fading day, satellites on parade_   
_A toast to the plans we've made to live like kings_

**Take It From Me – The Weepies**

***

Three days after Nigel announces that he's leaving Idol, Simon calls her.

"And good riddance, I say," he says. 

"This change, Simon, I'm not sure," she says. 

"Well you'd better get sure," he says. "I want you to come to New York." 

"Oh God," she says. "What's next?"

"Come to New York. I'm staying at the Four Seasons. I'll book you a suite too. Come for the weekend," he says.

"I don't know," she hems. 

"You always say you want to be more proactive. You and I are going to change Idol this year. You and I are going to make it better."

Simon, had it not been for his uncontrollable mean streak, could have been a politician. When he really believed in something, he could make her believe in it too. He could speak with passion and confidence on any subject. If only he'd pointed that passion toward government instead of the music industry. But then, she wouldn't know him. 

Two sides to every coin, after all.

"Are you going to get me fired?" she asks.

"If I get you fired, I'm going down too," he promises.

"All right. Book the room." Any time Simon is willing to lose money is assurance enough for her.

In New York, Paula checks into her suite before she even calls him.

"Call me from the airport," he'd said on the phone. But it'd been a long, bumpy flight and Paula wasn't real fond of planes to begin with. She was sore from sitting upright, sore from the cab ride – the cabbie had careened through traffic yelling profanities for twenty-five minutes. On the other hand, he hadn't seemed to recognize her and if he did, hadn't seemed to care. Small miracles.

It is stuffy in New York, humid and sticky still. August has never been her favorite month, especially on the east coast. At least L.A. has predictable weather. She really wants to remove her scarf, which she does almost immediately once she enters the air-conditioned hotel suite. She sets down her suitcase and sighs. She has come alone – no assistants, no managers, no publicists. 

In the mirror, she looks tired and sweaty. The hair around her temples is damp and curly where it touches her skin. With nimble fingers, she undoes the knot of the silk scarf and slides it carefully off. She doesn't want it to snag on the flesh colored bandage underneath. Of course, it's not her flesh tone – she is much tanner than the bandage so she hides it beneath scarves, turtlenecks, and artfully arranged blouses and jewelry. 

Already she feels cooler. She uses the hair elastic on her wrist to secure the hair off of her neck and then reaches for the hotel phone. She can just dial his room number – he's across the hall and a door down. But it rings and rings so she calls his cell phone from her BlackBerry. 

"Your flight was delayed?" he answers. He's not much for hellos, Simon.

"No, I'm at the hotel," she says, falling into one of the softer looking chairs. 

"What?" he exclaims. "I thought you were... I mean, I wanted to be there when you got in!"

"Oh," she says. "That's very sweet of you."

"It would've been," he mutters.

"Where are you?" 

"Sony BMG let me use a spare office to work out of while I'm here," he says.

"I thought 19 had offices in New York," she says.

"Yeah, but I don't much fancy seeing Nigel these days," he says. "Look, just stay there. I'll come back."

"That was always my plan," she says.

She brushes her teeth and then collapses on the bed. The doctor gave her Vicodin for the pain but she's only taking extra strength Tylenol this close to filming. She doesn't want to take any chances and it's not like either work very well for her anyhow. 

Resting feels nice. The room is nice too – the drapes have been drawn and without a view of the city, she can imagine that she's anywhere in the world, completely alone. The idea of being untraceable and untouchable gets more appealing every year. 

"I'm not crazy," she says out loud to the empty room. But giving herself this verbal reassurance isn't exactly compelling evidence. 

She wakes up to knocking, pounding really, on the door. When she opens it, Simon stares at her with an exasperated expression. 

"You sleep like the dead, woman," he says and pushes his way inside the room. It's a habit one picks up after enough time as a celebrity. No celebrity lingers in doorways. That's just a tabloid shot waiting to happen, especially if one happens to be lingering in scandalous doorways. 

"Sorry," she says. "Come in."

"I am in," he says. "What happened to your neck?" She reaches her hand up to touch the bandage lightly.

"I had surgery," she says. "It hit the news cycle yesterday. You didn't hear?"

"First of all, I don't read People Magazine," he says. "Secondly, I didn't know I had to find out about your life from the tabloids."

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," she says.

"Obviously you're fine, you're standing right here," he says, walking past her and opening the mini-fridge. He pulls out two waters and tosses her one. She almost doesn't catch it. "What did you get done?"

"Please don't say that like it's plastic surgery," she scolds. "I had some discs in my neck replaced."

"That's rather serious," he says, finally sounding slightly concerned. "They went in through the front?"

"Yes," she says. 

"They didn't damage your vocal chords did they?" he asks. 

"You'd like that," she says.

"No, I wouldn't," he says. "I'm asking as a record executive, not as an asshole."

"They're fine. Thank you."

"I'm glad," he says. They're standing in the room and finally he sighs like an impatient child. "I'd very much like to see it."

"See what?"

"Your scar!" he says. "Can I see it?"

"Why don't you have a seat," she says. 

"We have a lot to do," Simon informs her as he settles down on the ivory sofa. 

"I can't say I know what you mean by that," she says. "You're all, come to New York, let's change the world! But it was a two minute phone call and I'm not sure what you expect me to do, really... now that I'm here."

"Do you feel a little better now? Got that out of your system?"

"Simon."

"Yes, we're going to get down to it but nothing is going to happen until I get a look at that scar," he says. 

"What is it with men and wounds?" she asks and moves to the mirror. 

"It's a wound?" he asks, excitedly.

"It's not a scar until at least a week after surgery," she says, wincing as the bandage pulls away from the tender skin. "It looks gross. It's still sutured."

"Awesome," he says. 

She holds aside the bandage. The skin underneath is red and inflamed and marred by purple stitches. The incision was larger than he expected, almost two inches across.

"Jesus Christ, Paula," he breathes. 

"I know," she says.

"How badly will that scar over?"

"Couldn't say," she says. "It will fade over time. I can cover it with clothes, jewelry. Make-up for the show." She shrugs. "I feel better."

"Good," he says. He can't stop staring so she replaces the bandage. His eyes flicker back to her face and his expression is soft. Now he's not a record executive or a reality show judge, he's just Simon, her friend.

"Simon?"

"Hmm?"

"What am I doing here?" she says. 

"We're going to change the show."

"What?"

"You and I," he says. "You and me, Paula, are going to pick the fourth judge." 

"No," she says.

"No?"

"No fourth judge," she says firmly. 

"It's gonna happen," he says.

"It doesn't work!" she explodes. "We've tried it, damn it, and it doesn't work! Mark McGrath? Gene Simmons? Jewel? Do you remember how awful?"

"We haven't chose the right person is all," he argues. 

"Please don't do this," she pleads.

"I'm sorry," he says though he doesn't sound sorry at all.

"Randy was right," she mutters.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"When Nigel left he said it was just a matter of time before you turned Idol into the X-Factor and he was right. I defended you and he was right," she says. "I shouldn't have come." She reaches for her scarf and slides it around her neck.

"You just got here," he says. "Don't go."

"Clearly your mind is made up and you don't need me," she says. 

"Don't do this."

"Who's on your short list, Simon? The rest of Girls Aloud? Is Kylie free? What about Kelly Osbourne?"

"You know, you can blame me but I take orders too. This is Fuller's idea," he says standing and moving in front of the door. 

"One you support, no doubt," she snaps. "I bet mentoring is his idea too?"

"Why are you attacking me?" he asks.

"You don't think I understand anything, do you?" she says. "Is this punishment for Dancing With The Stars?"

"You aren't being punished," he sighs.

"I'm being fired," she says.

"No."

"Maybe not today, but it's going to be a slow death," she says.

"No, you arrogant drama queen," he says. "You have it ass backwards as usual."

"How?" she asks.

"You're not getting fired, you're getting promoted," he says. "Sort of. Fuller and I want your input. We want you to sit at the grown-ups table."

"Really?" she asks.

"We're getting another judge. Either I can pick someone and if you hate them you can shut the hell up about it or you can help me." 

"Okay," she says, after a moment. "But for the record, I'm against a fourth judge."

"There's no record, we're just two people in a hotel room," he reminds her. "Are we done fighting?"

"Can't see how," she mutters. 

"Here's what we should do. Eat some food and compare our lists of candidates," he says.

"I don't have a list of candidates," she says. "I've known about this for ten minutes."

He tosses her a pen.

"Start thinking." 

They order in. He tries to get her to go out but when she points at her neck he agrees to order up to the suite. They move to his room across the hall. It's where his alcohol is and he's been in the suite for a few days already and the lived-in feeling helps brainstorming, or so he says. 

Paula takes up the whole couch somehow. 

"Aren't you like three feet tall? How are you doing this? Scoot over," he orders. She sticks out her tongue.

"Go away," she mutters. "I'm still mildly angry with you."

"Remember when we were friends?" he says nostalgically, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Not really." 

Despite her less than enthusiastic attitude, it's Paula who first throws out the name Kara DioGuardi. They don't talk about her for a couple hours, though. Simon is just writing down names – he asks how to spell it and jots her down between Latoya Jackson and Kristen Chenoweth. 

It's dark by the time they have a short list. Somehow they've switched places. Paula is lying horizontally across the bed, her toes just hanging off the mattress and Simon is covering the couch, looking at the list.

"How has Cyndi Lauper stayed on this list so long?" he asks through a mouthful of orange corn chips. The man eats like a twelve-year-old boy.

"She has experience on Canadian Idol," Paula offers sleepily. 

"Exactly," Simon mutters and she can hear his pen on the paper; Cyndi is off the list. 

"Who is left?" she asks. "Because we need to go to sleep."

"We're filming in a few days. We have to pick someone, convince them to join, and fly them out here. There's no time for sleep," he chastises. She sticks her tongue out at him, feeling a little pre-adolescent herself. 

"I vote for Kara," she says, letting her eyes drift close.

"Why again?"

"You know her," Paula says, tired of the sound of her own voice, more tired of the sound of his.

"Humor me,"

"She's inside the business," Paula shrugs. "She knows how to write, to produce, to play and sing."

"She's the female Randy," Simon says.

"What Randy was before anyone knew him anyway," Paula says. "Now it's all, dawg this and yo that."

"My, my," Simon says. "Is this how you speak about me when I'm not around?"

"Much worse, actually," Paula admits and she says it like a joke but they both know it isn't. 

"No kidding," Simon mutters. "All right. Let's give her a call."

They wait until morning because it's nearly 3:00am in New York City and that's still late in L.A. Paula falls asleep on Simon's bed and when she wakes up a few hours later, she doesn't remember where she is and she can't hear Simon asleep on the sofa so she exhaustedly climbs under the covers to try to get warm. Her mouth feels dirty and dry but when she reaches blindly towards the nightstand for the bottle of water she sets there every night before bed, her hand only finds air. 

In the morning, she wakes up the to the muffled sound of Simon's voice. When she opens her eyes, she doesn't see him at first. He's on the balcony facing the busy street and she can make out his shape through the white curtains. He comes in windswept and reeking of cigarette smoke.

"I spoke to Fuller," he says. "He's going to make the call."

"Why am I in your bed?" she asks, sleepily. 

"Because that's where you fell asleep," he says, rather rationally.

"Where did you sleep?" she asks, sitting up a little. He nods his head towards the couch. There's a blanket and a pillow on it, balled up and wrinkled. "Oh."

"Yeah," he says.

"You know, I don't say this a lot, but you're a nice man, Simon," she says.

"You don't say that a lot," he confirms. "You hungry?"

"Yeah," she says.

"Go get dressed. Let's go for a walk," he says and then turns away while she puts on her shoes and tiptoes out of his room like something much more has happened.

Paula doesn't usually take walks. She goes out in L.A. to Starbucks, to dinner, shopping but it isn't a city built for pedestrians. She has a white Range Rover, less than a year old and plenty of people to drive her about when she feels the urge to sit in the back where the windows are tinted darkly. 

But New York is a city meant for walking. The sidewalks are wide and the city is built on a grid so it's easy to navigate. Celebrities walk the streets of New York all the time. Sometimes heads turn but mostly they don't and Paula wants to walk by a lot of people and have them not care about her sometimes. 

She doesn't shower but she does put up her hair and redo her make-up and puts on a shirt with a collar high enough that she doesn't need a scarf. She forgoes the heels for wedges that offer more support and when she leaves her room, he's standing there wearing his sunglasses inside, leaning against the hallway. 

"Come on," he says and lets her take his arm.

They find a bagel store and sit in the corner. Simon licks cream cheese off his finger and she stirs cream into her cup of coffee. They are waiting for the phone to ring. Paula's phone goes off first, but it's just a text from Kara, not a call.

"What's it say?" Simon inquires.

"She wants to know if I know anything about what's happening," Paula says. "Why Simon Fuller has asked her to come to New York."

"What are you going to say?" he asks.

"I'll just say that I'll see her when she gets here," Paula says and pauses to write the text. Simon sneaks a sip from her mug and wrinkles his nose. He adds sugar and sips it again. She doesn't mind sharing with him.

"This is going to be a long week," Simon warns her. 

"Everyone is going to say that she is coming to replace me," Paula says. 

"And who is everyone, exactly?" he asks.

"Anyone with a pen or a keyboard, I'd imagine," she says.

"You have some loyal fans," he points out. 

"Yeah," she says, her face softening. "That's true." 

He finishes her coffee and she eats some of his bagel and when he leans over to wipe cream cheese from the corner of her mouth, she has to resist the urge to turn her head and kiss his fingers. It's a disconcerting urge, one she has repressed before but hasn't felt in a long while. 

"Come on," he says. 

They're walking back to the hotel when Randy calls Simon to ask about what's happening. He has been summoned to New York also. When Simon tells him, she knows he's upset because she'd be upset if she were in Randy's position. She usually is – left out.

"Was he hurt?" Paula asks when he hangs up.

"Probably," Simon says. "Oh well."

"Am I the only one you're nice too?" she blurts. He looks at her for a moment.

"You and my mother," he says, finally.

"Well, I hope you're nicer to her than you are to me," she says.

"I am," he confirms. "But I am quite nice to you. Maybe not during broadcast, always, but when it counts."

"And when is that?" she asks.

"When we're alone," he says, waggling his eyebrows. 

"She'll be here later tonight then? Kara?" Paula says, changing the subject, suddenly a little uncomfortable. 

"Yes," he says. "What do you say we go back to the hotel and rest up? Fuller should arrive this evening. We can meet Kara for dinner."

"I could use a rest," Paula says, her fingers touching the tender place at her neck absently. 

"Me too," he says, softly. 

Simon walks her to her door and she really does try to rest. She takes a bath. The doctor said no showers until the sutures come out so she's been taking baths and being careful to keep the area as dry as possible. She is dressed and sitting at the vanity when there's a knock at the door. She peers through the peephole and lets Simon in. 

"Couldn't sleep?" Simon says smirking.

"I guess I'm a little anxious," she admits, motioning him inside and shutting the door softly. She sat back down and resumed curling her hair. He watched for a moment before flopping on her bed and turning on the TV. It's low enough so she can't really make out what he's watching. The steady drone makes her believe it's the news. 

She's patient in doing her hair. She has a lot of it and wraps each piece carefully around the curling iron and counting to fifteen. It takes her a while to realize that even though he's changed locations, he's still watching her.

"What?" she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Don't be anxious," he says.

"That's hard to control," she says, pulling the plug of the iron from the wall and letting drop and coil onto the counter. 

"It's going to be fine," he says. 

"You don't know that."

"What's the worst thing that could happen?" he asks.

"It could tank the show and we could all lose our jobs," she says. 

"Paula, darling," he says. "If the ratings tank during auditions, she'll be gone by Hollywood week. We both know that." 

"Darling?" she murmurs, mostly to herself, very cynically – enough for him to hear. 

"Oh, don't be that way," he says. "You used to love when I called you pet names."

"That was then," she says firmly. "Things are different now." 

"Why?" he asks.

"Because that was," she sighs. "It was a long time ago." 

"A year," he scoffs.

"And then two years before that. Then seven months before that," she accuses. 

"We deserve a fresh start, then," he concludes.

"You say that EVERYTIME we break up!" she says.

"No," he corrects. "I say that every time we get back together. Which we always do. I don't know why you fight it." 

"Did you ever consider that we are not right for one another?" she asks. 

"You know, I have," he says conversationally. "But then I sort of miss you." 

"You sort of miss me?" she asks. "Oh, well, please let me drop everything and run into your arms."

"Sarcasm is not attractive on a woman your age," he snaps. 

"You're an ass," she says and gets up to go find her shoes in the other room. 

"You look nice," he calls after her and she rolls her eyes, coming back in with a pair of navy heels. 

"Do you even remember why we broke up the last time?" she asks. 

"We can't do this now, we have to be to dinner in 40 minutes."

"40 minutes is plenty of time for you and me to fight," she says. 

"Why are we fighting? I say I want to be with you and you pick a fight with me. Why do I feel like I'm the one in trouble?" he asks. 

"You don't remember, do you?" she accuses.

"Sure I do," he says. "You were mad about Terri."

"I was mad?" she screeches. "You'd broken up with her and were still living with her!"

"She moved out!"

"Into a house you bought!" she says. 

"This... this is an old fight," he says. 

"It's the same fight," she says. "We've been having the fight for 8 years!"

"And what fight is that?"

"You can't commit! You don't want anything permanent, Simon, anything meaningful," she says. "And we can break up and get back together and break up but if that hasn't changed in 8 years it's not ever going to change." 

"That isn't fair," he says.

"Life isn't fair," she says, knowingly. "Maybe that's what our fight is about." 

"Maybe," he agrees.

At dinner, Kara's face is glowing. She can't believe what's happening to her and her hand shakes as she signs the contract that Simon Fuller presents to her and slides across the dinner table. Fuller is full of promises and good cheer but Simon and Paula are both quiet. Paula clenches her teeth together and Simon drinks wine, which he only does when he's in a foul mood. Randy knows exactly what's happening. He's been in the middle of this scene countless times before. 

"You all right?" Randy asks Simon, speaking low while Kara and Fuller are deep in conversation about the future. 

"I'm fine," he says.

"And Paula?" Randy asks.

"Is totally psychotic as usual," Simon says. 

Randy laughs. 

"She turned you down, huh?" he says. Suddenly Paula leans across Simon into Randy's space.

"I can hear you two, you know and I am not the crazy one!" she hisses. There is silence at the table and when she looks up, everyone is staring at her. She clears her throat. "Sorry. Will you excuse me?" She needs some air and only Randy half way stands when she pushes back her chair and heads for the exit. 

Paula smoked for a year in her teens and wishes now for the filthy habit back so she had something to do with her hands. Instead she is just frustrated and alone, standing in front of a restaurant. It doesn't take long for Randy to come out. 

"Hey Beauty Queen," he says. "You all right?"

"Fine," she says. "I'm just tired." 

"They're paying the bill," he says. "I'll walk you back to the hotel." 

"All right," she agrees. It's only a few blocks. They link arms and walk in companionable silence for a while. "How is your family?" she says after a while. 

"Good," he says. "Yours?"

"Fine," she says. "Just fine." 

They lapsed back into silence again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, finally.

"What's there to talk about?" she says, sadly. "You know what the definition of insanity is right?"

"Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results," he offers. 

"I'm tired of failing at this, Randy. It doesn't work and nothing we do changes that," she says.

"You two had some good times," Randy offers. 

"Do you mean when we were cheating on his girlfriend or when we were fighting everyday or when he made me cry on camera?" Paula offers. 

"Okay, it isn't the healthiest relationship I've ever seen, but I believe you truly care for one another," he says. "I've seen you happy."

"Oh Randy," she says. "What do you think I should do?" 

He doesn't have an answer for her.

"So you and Simon got to pick the new judge, huh?" he says in lieu of an answer. 

"I didn't know," she says automatically, a defensive response. "I mean, he called me out here and didn't tell me until I was already here."

"I see," he says.

"I'm sorry."

"Nah," he says. At the lobby of the hotel, he takes her hand. "You want to hear what I think?"

"Please," she says.

"Simon loves you," Randy says. "He may not know how to do any of the other stuff right, but his love is genuine." 

"Yeah," she says. "I thought that would be enough too, once."

She goes to bed thinking that Simon might knock on her door but when she wakes up, it's morning and she's still alone.


End file.
